My friends all call me Avida Dollars. Fuck them. While they were scribbling boys’ names in the backs of their flowery school notepads I was dreaming of money. A word I’ve said aloud to myself so many times that it’s begun to sound strange. Yea, they adored all the Disney princesses while I watched the villains with a never-ending interest. I almost drown sometimes while dry and fully awake, immersed in fantasies of swimming giddy laps in pools of cash. I don’t even want it for the things it buys, I want it period. I yearn for extra digits tacked onto my account statements. From 5 to 6 to 7 to 8. My biggest goal is to have to look up how to say the word for whatever comes after trillion, and after that, and the next one. I look the part of quiet and content little girl, but be most assured: I am not. I always heard the world was a dualism of good and evil and I couldn’t agree more – they come in red and green. My entire being elates and deflates with the rise and fall of my profits, the orgasmic gains and the stabbing losses. I know there are a million things to think about, a nuanced palette of human desires and motivations, but for me things are much more simple: I dream just of dollars, whether asleep or wide awake.
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